Author's Note: Thanks to all for your support and patience.


With Sandy's okay, Petey has begun to follow another lead. Sandy, worn out by all the commotion, is convinced, in part by Kirsten and in part by Petey, to allow Petey to head out to Fresno to grill a man by the name of Charlie Horatio.

Petey parks his car at the motel he's booked a room at. It's small, nondescript, and all Petey Corrigan needs to conduct his investigation. After creating a mini-workstation at the desk in his musty, slightly cramped room, Petey picks up the phone and dials Mr. Horatio's number, hoping he'll be able to garner more information from the presumably shifty man who called his offices, saying he 'maybe got some information on Atwood'.

"This Charlie?" Petey says as soon as he hears someone pick up the phone with a click!

"Who wants to know?"

"This is Corrigan. You called my offices with some information."

"Yeah," Charlie responds gruffly. "You wanna meet me? Don't wanna be givin' this over the phone, you know?"

Petey makes arrangements to meet Charlie at a Dunkin' Donuts tomorrow morning—nice, neutral ground in case things get ugly. He can tell that Charlie's going to hand over what he knows, nice and easy.

Petey sleeps easily that night, hopeful, confident that this information will not lead to a dead end, that it will lead to the safe recovery of Sandy's son, Ryan.

After he's arrived at the donut shop, Petey orders a medium decaf—no cream, just sugar—and sits down to wait for Charlie Horatio, who will be wearing a blue t-shirt and come driving up in a rusted red van. The rusted part, Petey's not so sure about, it's just an assumption.

As soon as Charlie walks into the Dunkin' Donuts, Petey recognizes him. It's not only the boots that stomp confidently into the shop, but the somewhat crooked nose and the salt-and-pepper mustache. The receding hairline, the lip curled into a half-smile, half-snarl, the soiled fingernails clenched into fists, all this Petey Corrigan takes note of.

He nods at Charlie, who goes up to the counter, greets the cashier by name, and gets his coffee—regular, two creams, no sugar. Charlie walks over to Petey and pulls out the chair across from him.

"Morning," says Charlie, sipping his coffee and making a face. Evidently, the coffee has burned his tongue.

"Morning. Let's cut to the chase." There's no point in small-talking this character, Petey decides. Get the information, and go.

Charlie Horatio leans forward in his chair, looks around, as if half-expecting someone to be eavesdropping. "This Atwood guy, just got out of jail, he's on parole, came to work on the construction site."

Petey feels his spirits sink along with the coffee in his cup as he sips it. This Atwood guy, this reliable source, the sure key to finding Ryan, this Atwood guy turns out to be his father…or his brother.

"Sorry. I didn't catch Atwood's name."

Charlie shakes his head. "That's 'cause I didn't tell ya. John Atwood's his name, though I guess he could be Jonathon."

John Atwood. Petey makes a mental note to ask Sandy about Ryan's family. "How old is Atwood?" Petey takes a pen and small notebook out of his pants pocket and begins to scribble, in the trusty shorthand he learned back in '83.

"If I had to guess…forty?"

Petey sighs, dejected. Charlie may be off by a few years or so, but give or take five and he's right on target. This Atwood fellow must be Ryan's father. That, or his uncle, but Petey's not sure if Ryan has uncles. And a forty-year old recently released from jail is probably not Ryan's brother, either.

"And you say he works at…?"

"With me. Bailey's Construction. We're working on that old baseball lot on the corner of Gruver and Regency."

Quickly scribbling this information onto his paper, Petey thanks Charlie Horatio for his time.

"Yeah, you come by anytime, Mr. Corrigan," Horatio says, ever respectfully. He stands up and, coffee in hand, walks out of the Dunkin' Donuts.

"I will," says Petey, watching his latest informant—a letdown—start the engine of his rusted red van. As Charlie burns rubber, the tires squealing on the way out, Petey shoves his face into his hands. This is not going well. Not well at all. There's one more item on the agenda he has to take care of before he can head back to the Cohens and concede failure, once again.


"Mr. Corrigan, you came!" Charlie walks over to Petey's car.

"Petey's fine, Charlie."

"You want me to get Atwood?"

Petey nods, and, like a small puppy that has just graduated from obedience school; Charlie scampers off to find John Atwood. While he waits, Petey scrapes his shoe against the layer of dirt covering the newly poured concrete sidewalk, scuffing his black shoes. No longer shiny anyway, the shoes are taking on a scratchy brown coloring.

Charlie returns a few minutes later with a tall man in cement-coated work boots. He's got a full head of dirty blond hair, Petey notes. Immediately Petey extends his hand to shake John's. John stares at Petey's smooth hand before mechanically extending his own stiff, coarse hand.

"I'm Petey Corrigan."

"John Atwood," says John, although he must know that Petey already knows of his name. "What can I do for you?"

"I'll catch you later." Charlie waves at Petey, whispers good luck, and heads over to a truck parked on the street to get two sheets of plywood.

"You know a Ryan Atwood?"

John shifts his eyes to the ground, then up to Petey. "He's my son," he replies huskily. "Why?"

Petey's not going to play games with this guy. He'll tell him the truth and maybe John can point him in the direction of other sources, maybe tell him a place Ryan might be welcome to escape to. "He's missing; we're looking for him and stumbled upon you."

John's unnaturally blue eyes flicker with interest. Petey's only just noticed those eyes, the same ones in the pictures of Ryan. The family resemblance, other than the obvious hair color, is now unambiguous.

"Did you talk to Dawn? That bitch better not have done anyth—"

"John," interrupts Petey, "Ryan hasn't been living with Dawn. He was living with the Cohens, and then he went back to Chino to live with the girl he may have gotten pregnant, and one night he just left the house and never came back."

"I never stuck around long enough to get to know him…he was only six or seven when I left and even then I wasn't home most nights…I shoulda written him…how's Trey?"

"John, with all due respect, this is about Ryan right now. But Trey was incarcerated last summer, when he and Ryan got busted for stealing a car. That was when Ryan went to live with the Cohens."

"Kay. Sorry. So, how can I help you with all this? I haven't seen Ryan in at least nine years…if that's what you're suggesting…" John wrings his fingers together, rough hands callused from twelve-hour construction jobs, day in, day out.

"No," says Petey quickly, "Nothing like that. Just…do you have any relatives, any friends Ryan would've known of, that he could go to them if he needed a place to stay?"

John is quiet for a minute, and Petey gives him silence to work with. He shuts his eyes and squeezes them, as though the information will come tearing out of his eye sockets if he concentrates hard enough. Then—"My sister, Sandy…she's in…"

"Yes?"

"Buffalo, I think, New York." Petey takes out his handy notebook and a pen, ready to take note of every word John says, even if the information is, more or less, useless.

"Oh." It's highly unlikely that Ryan would go all the way to New York, and even more so that he'd be able to scrounge up the funds necessary for such travel.

"You say friends too?"

"Yeah."

"My best friend," John tells Petey, "Name's Sean. Sean Harverd. Trey and Ryan, they used to call him Uncle Sean. Last time I saw him was here, before I got locked up and when we was still a family, me and Dawn and Trey and Ry."

"So, this Uncle Sean would let Ryan stay with him, if needed?"

John shrugs. "If Ryan could track him down…I don't know if Ry would even remember him…he was just a little kid."

Petey is about to thank John for the somewhat useful information—hey, some information is better than none—when John's eyes light up again. He's got something.

"I remember Sean came to see me at the prison, you know, and he told me he'd been helping Dawn with my boys. 'Course, that probably meant he was sleeping with her, he always was kinda hot for her…but I'd rather have had him doing that than some bastard who'd beat Trey and Ryan. So, he comes to see me again, says Dawn doesn't want him around no longer, and he's heading east, Arizona, Colorado maybe. As far as he can get with his limited money, and then he'll settle down. A good car mechanic, Sean always was good with cars."

Petey listens, intrigued. Atwood's got a memory like no other. Good thing he stuck around to hear all of this.

"And…?" prompts Petey, when John pauses, most likely in order to jog his memory.

"And…he said he'd try to keep in touch with my boys, had their new address in Chino or wherever the hell Dawn moved them to. Just to make sure they was staying out of trouble, you know?"

Petey's mind is full of this information, information that could prove extremely useful after all. He shuts his notebook and puts it and the pen back into his pocket.

"Thanks, John." Petey shakes his hand again. "If you think of anything else, call this number." He reaches into his pocket and hands John a business card. "Cell's on all day and night."

John nods, fingering the pure white card with his dirt stained hands before pocketing it. He watches Petey drive away, wondering where the hell his son is and not wanting to tell Petey that, with the Atwood luck, Ryan's either lying, dead, in an alley somewhere, or locked up.


The phone rings and Kirsten drops the book she's holding and runs to the kitchen. "Hello?"

"Kirsten? Are you up?" It's Sandy. Just Sandy.

Kirsten sighs, looking down at her Berkeley pajama pants, a Grateful Dead tie-dye t-shirt. She's up, but that doesn't mean she has to get dressed.

"Yeah."

"Any word?"

"Wouldn't I have called you?"

"Yes, dear." Sandy sighs. Kirsten is so exasperated with him these days, with the world these days. "Do you want me to bring you some lunch?"

"No thanks. I'm going to go to Costco later. We've got no food in the house."

Since when does Kirsten shop at Costco? Sandy wonders, but deems it unwise to ask her about her sudden change of store preferences. "I love you," he tells Kirsten, putting the smallest of smiles on her face.

"Love you, too." Kirsten hangs up the phone and runs back into the living room. It's a mess, with boxes of pictures scattered all over the floor and two scrapbooks open to pages of Seth. Everything is a memory of Seth.

Kirsten plops down in the spot she's been occupying on the carpet for the last two hours. She picks up the royal blue scrapbook and smiles at a picture of Seth, grinning, toothless in Disneyworld. The picture on the other page is a lopsided photo of Kirsten, being sandwiched by Chip and Dale, a thumb covering half of the castle behind them. Kirsten manages to laugh; Seth had insisted on taking the picture, and his thumb had partially covered the lens, his head cocked for a 'better picture'.

The next picture is Seth and Sandy in Mickey Mouse ears, Seth frowning and Sandy grinning maniacally. Kirsten remembers bribing nine-year-old Seth with new games for his Playstation so that he'd wear the ears and stand in place for a picture. She'd gotten her picture, although it was an unhappy one, and he'd still gotten the three new video games.

Kirsten shuts the scrapbook of Seth's eight to twelve year old experiences. She sets it on the couch, out of her way, and picks up the baby blue scrapbook. The sight of the pictures on the very first page makes Kirsten's breath stop in her throat and tears choke her up. There Seth is, in his very first picture. He's wearing a white beanie with little blue snowflakes on it and is wrapped up in a baby blue blanket. His mouth is wide open and his brown eyes sparkle.

On that very same page a picture of Kirsten and Seth is bordered by paper cutouts of baby blocks, spelling out 'Mommy & Me'. Kirsten's hair is limp and bedraggled, but her skin is glowing with the healthy sheen of motherhood.

A few fat tears roll off of Kirsten's cheek and onto the page, splattering it. Hastily Kirsten closes the book; she doesn't need it being ruined by her moment of sensitivity. She reaches into a box and stiffens as she pulls the leaf collage out. Seth's elementary school artwork box.

Knowing that she's in no way emotionally equipped to pore over these archives of Seth's childhood, Kirsten takes another piece out of the box—self-portrait. Seth's given himself a full Afro, only 'a Jewfro, Mom', big brown eyes, and Popeye-like arm muscles. She shakes her head, puts the leaf collage and the self-portrait back into the box as the tears become steadier, a heavier downpour. But her hands itch to pick out one more Seth Cohen original, and so they do. It's a kindergarten masterpiece—A huge heart cut by the teachers, then decorated by Seth himself. Seth has drawn himself, Sandy, and Kirsten holding hands, a large black dog by their side (wishful thinking) and the words 'One Big Happy Family' scrawled over their heads in barely comprehensible writing. The teachers obviously helped Seth spell the words out.

Kirsten pushes the heart back into the box as she prepares for a flood of tears. She hurries into the kitchen where she stands over the sink, letting her tears Drip! Drip! Drip! Into the basin.

Kirsten blindly grabs a paper towel and dabs at her eyes, blowing her nose in a loud honk that would have Seth cowering in embarrassment. She'll go to Costco now, stock up on Seth and Ryan's favorite snacks—although she knows but a few of Ryan's. Kirsten regards Ryan as her son but he's the polar opposite of Seth. Ryan never asked for anything, while Seth asked for anything and everything in between. It took her four months to figure out that Ryan liked Cinnamon Toast Crunch best, not Captain Crunch like Seth.

He'd never have asked.

She'll go to Costco and get a dozen boxes of each. Her boys will be famished when they come home.

Her boys.

Kirsten gets into the Range Rover—Sandy has his Beemer at work with him—and drives to Costco. She loads up on cereal, like she wanted, but decides to hold off on the ten gallons of milk, because, after all, milk spoils and she doesn't know how long it will be before her house is noisy with the sound of teenage boys. Well, the sound of one teenage boy; Ryan doesn't really make a racket.

As she goes up and down each aisle, randomly shoving Seth's favorites and a few guesses for Ryan, Kirsten spots pudding.

Pudding.

Seth loves pudding. He's had a love affair with it since before he could walk and Kirsten's surprised that it hasn't shown up on his lanky, lean frame.

She begins to load pudding into the half-filled cart; tapioca, chocolate, French vanilla, Oreo, double chocolate…

Three hundred dollars (seventy-eight of that is pudding) later, Kirsten wheels her cart out of Costco, pushing it towards the Range Rover. She unloads the wholesale sized foods into the back and when it's filled, she places the rest of her packages on the backseat and the floor.

One unit of tapioca pudding falls onto the ground. Kirsten picks it up, raises it to the bright sky, and sobs.

"Seth, I have your pudding…please come home, baby," she says loudly, attracting curious stares from other shoppers. Sinking to her knees in the rough asphalt parking lot, she says, her voice hushed this time, "Please come home…the pudding…I…have…pudding…"